


Heart's Desire

by 88thParallel (CanadaHolm)



Series: A Change of Heart [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Dates, First Kiss, Fluff, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, Organ Transplantation, Return to Me AU, Sensitive Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-07 11:50:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15907701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadaHolm/pseuds/88thParallel
Summary: Reeling after a tragic loss, John Watson is surprised when he finds love again. After a lifetime of illness, Sherlock Holmes finally feels his heart truly beat for another.But as they move toward something more serious, an unbelievable truth is revealed that threatens to break both their hearts for good.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This AU took me by surprise as I rolled over in bed at 4am a few days ago and a snippet of a song from a movie I hadn't seen in over a decade came to me. Of course my mind went: BUT WHAT IF SHERLOCK AND JOHN...? And I haven't been able to stop my fingers since.
> 
> The film this is based on is a sweet little rom-com called "Return to Me" that came out back in 2000, and starring David Duchovny and Minnie Driver. This adaptation borrows a lot of pacing from the movie, but I hope that it is obvious I've made it my own for our Baker Street Boys ;)
> 
> Thanks to elldotsee, mandapanda8, and fellshish for being my betas and conductors of light on this one <3

“We’re going to be late,” John worries aloud as he quickly does up the last button on his dress uniform.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” comes the low, calm rumble from the bathroom. “We aren’t due until 1800 hours.”

John runs a hand over his jaw, feeling for any bristly spots he may have missed and finding only smooth skin. “But there’s always so much traffic on the high road, especially with the construction.” He squares his shoulders and gives himself a serious once-over in the mirror, absentmindedly twisting the gold band on his left hand.

The water runs for a moment, taps squeaking as they’re turned off again. “I’m the one who should be nervous,” the figure in the bathroom chides. “This whole gala is for _my_ pet project.”

“Yes, but when the man I love makes it his mission to help disabled veterans, the least I can do is make sure it goes off without a hitch. Beginning with arriving on schedule.”

John does a military turn as James exits the en suite in his own pristine army dress uniform and stands at attention. “Do I pass inspection, General Sholto?”

James’ face is serious, expression hard. His eyes rake down over John, but when they come back up to meet his, they are smoldering. “With flying colours, Captain Watson,” he growls, finally breaking a smile. He guides John’s face up for a kiss, then two, deeper, deeper. John wraps his arms around James’ back, pulling him even closer, then immediately regrets it.

“Whoa,” John says, pulling away with a chuckle when he feels his whole body start to react. “Let’s not get too wound up. We don’t have time for any _un-winding.”_

James drops his chin a little, as close as he gets to pouting. His auburn hair glints in the warm sunset streaming in through their bedroom window. “I can hardly be blamed,” he teases. “I haven’t seen you like _this_ for far too long. I forgot what it does to me, a handsome man in uniform.” He turns John back to face the mirror, wrapping his arms around him from behind and nuzzling at his neck.

“I could say the same,” John smiles. Their eyes meet in the reflection and John feels his heart soar.

“I don’t know how I’d do this without you by my side,” James murmurs into John’s shoulder before placing a kiss there.

“You’ve got your whole team,” John says, tilting his head. “You’ve been planning this gala for months, I’ve barely done more than being a cheerleader. And maybe your arm candy.”

James smiles and shakes his head, light blue eyes holding John’s dark blue in the mirror. “I’m not just talking about tonight,” James says softly, warm breath tickling the back of John’s neck. His voice is somber but fond. “I mean every single day. Waking up, being a responsible member of society, being _happy._ Helping others. I couldn’t do any of it without you.”

“Well,” John says playfully, turning his head and kissing James over his shoulder. “Lucky for you, you’ll never have to.”

 

* * *

 

“Checkmate,” the thin man rasps, trying to pretend he doesn’t notice his hand trembling as he deposits the piece on the game board.

There is no trace of competition on his opponent’s face, but neither does it hold pity. Sherlock would never admit it, but he never takes it for granted. Still, his brother does worry. Mycroft shrugs his arm to reveal his watch, pursing his lips resolutely.

“It’s getting late. You should rest.”

Sherlock lets his eyes flick to the clock. Not even eight.

“Can’t handle being beaten … three times in one day?” Sherlock licks his chapped lips and pushes down the panic that threatens to rise with each laboured breath. He just can’t get enough air anymore. “If I didn’t know you better … I’d think you were letting me win.”

“I’ve never molly-coddled you before and I’m not about to start now,” Mycroft replies with raised eyebrows. He pulls the tray table away from the bed and begins packing the black and white pieces into their box.

“And I’ve bested you at chess … seven times in our lives … two of them tonight.” He levels Mycroft with his most unenthused look even as his chest heaves with each sentence. “I can’t even think … clearly anymore. Is this your idea … of giving your dying sibling … a _Make-A-Wish?_ Tedious.”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Mycroft scoffs, tugging his waistcoat to lay smoothly and giving himself an excuse not to make eye contact. “You’re not dying.” The words hang heavily between them. It is the only lie Sherlock has ever heard his brother tell. “Soon,” Mycroft assures him, cleaning up some of the day’s detritus from the bedside stand and refilling Sherlock’s cup with water. “You’re at the top of the list now. Probability dictates it’ll happen practically any minute.”

Sherlock doesn’t have the energy to argue, and instead hums noncommittally.

“DI Lestrade will be by in the morning.”

“I don’t need … babysitting,” Sherlock scowls. “Not going anywhere.”

“The man considers himself your _friend,_ Sherlock. I can’t fathom why, but he wants to spend time with you.” _While he still can,_ Sherlock’s mind fills in soberly. “Maybe he’ll have a case for you to look over,” Mycroft continues. “Do you need anything before I go?”

Sherlock shakes his head. Never one for physical contact, Mycroft collects his coat and pauses at the foot of the bed, giving Sherlock’s ankle a brief squeeze before he leaves.

For its silence, his hospital room is hatefully noisy at night. The beep of the heart rate monitor. The soft hiss of cool oxygen at his nose. The clicks and drips of IV infusors. In the hallway, footsteps and conversations, nurses being paged, other patients being transported. Not that Sherlock can think much these days, poor oxygenation clouding his mind and making the act of laying motionless all day a physical exertion, but in this place it’s as impossible to sleep as it is to be awake.

Sherlock wonders how many more nights he has left before he closes his eyes and doesn’t open them again.

 

* * *

 

Schooling his features, John watches his husband turn into his General again. It doesn’t bother him, in fact he admires the way James can put on such a solid façade. John has always been pants at hiding his own emotions. As they exit the cab outside the banquet hall, John knows that for the fundraiser to succeed, they have to tread carefully. It’s no secret that they’re married, even among the higher ranks, but many military-types are still uncomfortable being reminded too blatantly. It’s an unfortunate reality, but tonight they’ll keep their affections chaste.

John finds himself pulled away from James for most of the cocktail hour as they make the rounds individually. Small talk to grease the right palms over passed hors d'oeuvres, gleaming silver trays and white-gloved hands. They catch each other’s  eyes across the room now and then, knowing looks of love and shared jokes that only they can decipher. Dinner is just placed before them when the speeches and toasts pull James to the stage.

As the words John had heard practiced so many times echo across the ballroom, John feels pride swell in his chest. How did he get so lucky to find such a brave, selfless man?

As the waitstaff clear the tables and the band picks up their instruments to get the dance floor moving, a corporal stops and gives them the good news. Preliminary donation totals are outstanding. They’ve reached their goal, and will be able to fund a new facility for veteran mental health and emotional rehabilitation — a severely overlooked area that both James and John feel deeply about. John knows that having James to support him when his PTSD flares, and being able to reciprocate while truly understanding the source of the trauma, is vital to their happiness and ability to reintegrate into civilian life. So many soldiers never find that connection in anyone, and the results are catastrophic.

Under the pretense of needing the loo, they finally steal a quiet moment together. “I am in awe of you,” John whispers into James’ ear in the soft light of an empty cloakroom. Muffled music hums through the walls. Nearby, a woman laughs as a bartender fills glasses with ice, soft clinks like audible glitter.

“May I have this dance?” James murmurs, extending his hand to John. Wrapped up in each other, they sway and spin to an old love song, laughing in delight and feeling invincible for all the good they are now poised to do. John wants to stay in the moment forever.

 

* * *

 

“Adult male, 39, car accident. Severe head trauma. Patient lost consciousness at the scene and has not regained it.”

John’s mind reels as he runs along next to the stretcher. He is no stranger to trauma. He’s usually the one yelling out orders in times like these, making plans and taking action. But they aren’t on the battlefield anymore. They are home now, they’re supposed to be safe.

He feels like he’s in a fog. This must be a dream.

A nightmare.

They were just dancing, laughing, drinking. They were heady with success and pride. They were heading home to celebrate privately, built up sexual tension wrapping them both in all-consuming lust. He could still feel the ghost of James’ hand on his thigh, warm and possessive. Had the cabbie made a wrong move, or had they been hit? How had it all gone wrong so quickly?

There is so much blood; John hands are covered in it. The thick white gauze wrapped around James’ head is already saturated through. A crimson blossom bright against pale skin.

The stretcher is pushed through swinging doors toward the trauma OR. Strong hands grip John’s biceps, stopping him in his tracks.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a nurse says, hands on John’s arms. “That’s as far as you can go.”

“I’m a doctor,” John chokes, trying to get past her. “Please. I’m a doctor. He’s my husband. _Please.”_

But the nurse shakes her head and hurries after the rest of the team. The doors swing closed and lock, trapping John on the wrong side, in what he’s sure is a black hole he’ll never stop falling into.

 

* * *

 

Mycroft is reaching for the phone before he’s even aware he’s awake. The mobile he’s never used before is chirping, a special ringtone he’s never heard, but is always listening for.

The call has finally come.

Sherlock has a heart.

 

* * *

 

Harry’s arms are tight around him as she chokes back a sob. The foyer is dark, but John prefers it. He doesn’t want to see the light of tomorrow right now. Doesn’t want the sun to come up and solidify everything that has happened in the shadow of night.

He is still in his dress uniform. A soldier’s suit that should never see blood is now covered in it, dark red staining the  navy. John’s got his own scrapes and bruises too, pads of gauze and bandages dotting his head and neck, his forearm splinted, but those injuries aren’t responsible for the state of his clothes.

His heart aches but somehow he is numb.

Harry pulls away and swallows. “I’ll stay tonight. You shouldn’t be alone,” she decides aloud, but he shakes his head, tells her to go.

She keeps talking, squeezing his uninjured forearm and trying to catch his eyes. Her words seem to echo, like she’s at the end of a long tunnel. Everything feels hollow. He manages to register that she’ll be back in the morning to help him with funeral arrangements, and calling their family and friends. He feels himself nod, thanks her, and closes the door behind her as she reluctantly goes.

He turns the bolt lock and braces himself against the dark wood with his good hand a moment, letting his head drop between his shoulders as he just tries to breathe. When he looks up, even in the darkness he can see there is still blood caked under his fingernails. Pushing down something that flares in his chest, he turns and leans back against the door, only to be confronted by his own reflection in the hall mirror.

Just a few hours ago, John’s reflection had been intertwined with James’. He can feel the strong arms that wrapped around him, the soft breath on his neck. He can see James’ bright blue eyes, full of playful affection, staring right back at him. John can taste his warm lips, hear James’ soft chuckle. But then he blinks and the memory is gone. He stands alone, in the dark, his new reality hitting him like a wave. His thoughts are a maelstrom, every beat of his heart in his chest an unimaginable pain. _James. James. James._

John longs to crawl into his arms, to feel his heat, to breathe him in. To feel secure. To know it will be alright.

But the flat is empty and still bathed in pale moonlight. Only one heart beats within these walls. Nothing will ever be alright again.

The weight of it all finally crushes him, emotions overwhelming. Horror for the way life changed so quickly. Fear for how he’d survive alone. Anger that James died and John is still breathing. Regret for the life they’ve planned that they’ll never live now. Grief and rage bubbles up within him, and he screams to the heavens for the injustice of it all. It sets loose something within him, and suddenly he can _feel_ his heart breaking, his chest a vice fighting to implode. John’s legs give out and he slides to the floor, cradling his head in his bloodstained hands as he weeps.

 

* * *

 

Despite the twilight hour, Sherlock’s room is full of people when Mycroft arrives. A team of nurses and orderlies are busy unhooking monitors, transferring IV fluids for transport to the operating theater. Everything has happened so fast, Sherlock hasn’t had time to feel anything but lucky.

Still, as Mycroft enters the room, harried from rushing to arrive in time, Sherlock catches a rare glimpse of emotions the split-second before his brother sees him and puts on his normal unaffected expression. The mix of raw hope and fear he sees there makes Sherlock’s stomach clench with anxiety. This is really happening now. A second chance at life, or a quicker route to death. He is suddenly struck with the realization that someone has died tonight in order for him to have this chance. He’d had so long to process it, years of knowing that his life would only continue under such circumstances, but now that it had come to pass, it’s like a lead weight Sherlock has no idea how to carry.

“There’ll be no stopping you now,” Mycroft laments, rolling his eyes at the inconvenience. As if the fact that Sherlock is finally going to be living a normal, healthy life is akin to Mycroft agreeing to a root canal.

“I’ll be fine without the … CCTV surveillance this time,” Sherlock bites back, affecting an equally put-upon demeanor.

They lock eyes for a moment, steely masks dropping long enough for unspoken words to pass between them.

“We’re ready,” the head nurse says. Mycroft nods.

“Godspeed, Brother Mine,” he whispers, feeling his own heart clench as Sherlock is whisked off down the hall.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal thanks to my conductors of light on this story - elldotsee, mandapanda8, and fellshish <3 How did I get so lucky?

* * *

  

**One Year Later**

 

* * *

 

Blood pounds in Sherlock’s ears as he sprints down the alleyway, the money launderer-turned-murderer they’ve been tracking for weeks just out of his grasp. Mark Umbridge is chubby but tall, and he’s running for his life, lending him the advantage of desperation. Sherlock is hot on his heels as he races down the steps of the tube station, vaulting the turnstile seconds before Sherlock follows suit. It’s a huge group of lost tourists that finally trip Umbridge up, causing him just enough pause for Sherlock to close the distance and tackle him to the ground.

Rapid footfalls echo through the station. “Christ, Sherlock!” Lestrade yells behind him a few seconds later, chest heaving. “You can’t keep running off like that!”

Sherlock transfers custody of the sweaty, swearing man to some equally winded constables. He stands and brushes off his Belstaff, subtly arranging his shirt collar and scarf, and sniffs. He is barely out of breath, relishing the feeling of the strong, steady thump under his ribs. He feels like he could fly, but keeps his expression stoic and disinterested when he addresses Lestrade. “At the speed you were going, you would have lost him five blocks back. Modern etiquette suggests a _thank you_ would be more appropriate.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Lestrade hisses. “You are a civilian, and you’re under my protection while you’re out here. You can’t be involved in the physical takedown of criminals — for your sake _and_ theirs!” Sherlock rolls his eyes and braces for the lecture, but they pause to move aside as Umbridge is hauled to his feet and led away between them.

Lestrade sighs as they walk back in the general direction of his car. It’s almost as far to just walk straight back to the Yard. “Look,” Lestrade starts, and Sherlock wishes he’d elected to take the tube instead. “I know you’re excited to test your limits and find out where your new boundaries are. But it’s like you’ve gone from _looking_ at a tricycle to doing _motocross_ _stunt tricks_ , and I doubt your doctor would be very happy to know that.”

“More like my brother,” Sherlock mutters. “He’s got you keeping an eye on me, then?”

“Sherlock —” Lestrade argues, and Sherlock spins to face him.

“I’ve been trapped in _bed_ for more than half my life, and now that I can finally _move_ he wants me to stop. Now that I know what it’s like to feel the thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through my veins … what it’s like to be _alive_ … he wants me to _stop._ Well I hate to disappoint him, but I’ve waited long enough to live _my life_ on _my terms_ and I’m not giving it up now. _”_

“We _both_ just want to make sure you’re not pushing yourself too hard,” Lestrade insists gently. “Mycroft’s not plotting to chain you up in a tower somewhere. He wants to make sure you don’t hurt yourself. Just dial it down a few notches, will you? That’s all I’m asking. It’s not unreasonable. Not to mention, there are plenty of other ways you can ‘feel alive.’ Why don’t you go out? Meet some people?”

“People are tedious,” Sherlock scowls. He unconsciously surveys his reflection as they pass a storefront window, double-checking the button on his shirt hasn’t come undone, and arranging his scarf over his chest even though it hasn’t moved since the station.

Lestrade glances at him out of the corner of his eye a moment before clearing his throat, and Sherlock is mortified when he realizes he’s been caught out. “I know it’s none of my business —”

“Indeed,” Sherlock spits.

“ — But that scar is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I’m not _ashamed,”_ Sherlock snaps defensively. “But I know the consensus is I’m a heartless bastard and I’d prefer not to give people supporting evidence.”

“It proves you _have_ a heart.”

“It proves my own heart was faulty and I required _someone else’s,”_ he mutters, unable to muster any acid as he finds himself full of guilt and self-loathing instead.

Lestrade fishes his keys out of his pocket and lights flash down the block as he unlocks the doors. He steals a look at his sulking companion as Sherlock climbs into the passenger seat. “I’m going to make a deduction of my own,” Lestrade says, narrowing his eyes. “You still haven’t sent that email, have you?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows twitch upward but he’s more irritated than he is impressed. “It’s not like it will matter.”

“It obviously matters to you, you’ve been fighting with yourself to send it for months. It’s been a year, Sherlock. Pardon the pun but you need to get this off your chest. Just send it already. You know it’s anonymous. The donor’s family will never find out who you are. I’m sure they’ve moved on by now, and you need to do the same.”

To Sherlock’s chagrin, Lestrade’s words echo back at him as he lays in bed that night.

It’s hard to believe a year has passed. It seems like lifetimes have gone by since he’d been so ill, clinging to a life that was barely worth living anyway. Now he is thriving, body and mind. How could you thank someone for a gift like that, especially knowing it came at such a large cost?

Sherlock knew very little about the origins of the heart that now beat in his chest; transplant recipients were entitled to know their donor’s gender, age range, and general cause of death. Sherlock was alive today because a man between 30 and 40 years old died as a result of trauma last year. An anonymous note to his family didn’t seem enough comfort by far, but Sherlock had never been good at deciphering human emotions, let alone consoling others. In the end, Sherlock decides, thumb hovering over the _send_ icon on his phone, it’s better than nothing. Plus, then he can be done with the whole thing once and for all.

He taps the button, an audible _whoosh_ announcing the departure of his words to NHS organ donation family services _._

 

* * *

 

“Doctor Watson, I’ve got Mister Ruiz waiting for you in room four. Complaining of back pain.”

John hits send on the e-mail he’d been replying to. More construction delays on the James Sholto Veteran’s Mental Health Center. Absolutely unacceptable.  

“Did you get a urine sample?”

“No, he said he was working in his shed and twisted —”

John huffs a frustrated breath and purses his lips in irritation before cutting her off. “Assume I always want to rule out a kidney infection in the future. It’s not rocket science to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”

The nurse (who has been with the surgery for over a decade and should know better), nods with a tight, contemptuous smile. “Noted, Doctor.” Two other nurses nearby shoot him withering looks. He pretends he doesn’t notice.

He’s not here to make friends, anyway.

He finishes his shift (Mister Ruiz only suffering from muscle strain after all) and heads home, riding the tube on autopilot.

The flat is cold and dark. The weather is consistently cooler as summer begins to wind down, but he hasn’t had the energy to start the heat. On the coldest nights, he throws a few logs in the fireplace to help him sleep. A glass or two of whiskey would do it, too, but it’s a road he refuses to go down again. He’d let it get out of hand after the funeral, chasing an oblivion that took more and more booze to catch. Waking to find himself slumped against James’ headstone one morning, John had been so deeply ashamed of himself he’d poured out every ounce the moment he’d gotten back to the flat. In the three months since, he’d not had a drop.

It’s hateful on multiple levels.

He thumbs through the post halfheartedly, looking for bills, then throws it all in the overflowing bin in the foyer. A few pieces spill out and join their brethren on the floor. He toes off his shoes and leaves them in the middle of the rug, walks wearily to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water without turning on any lights.

John shuffles to the sitting room and sits down on the couch, which now does double-duty as his bed. His mobile buzzes in his pocket and he sets down his glass to fish it out. He rarely gets phone calls or texts anymore, so he’s not surprised at the familiar face lights up the screen. John rubs a hand over his eyes, takes a deep breath and considers hitting _decline._ If only he hadn’t ignored three other calls from Harry this week.

He steels himself and answers. “Hey, Harry,” he says, trying (and failing) to infuse his voice with lightness he does not feel.

“John!” Harry exclaims with the spark so inherit to her personality. “Finally decided to stop dodging my calls, then?”

“I would never dodge your calls,” John says unconvincingly, picking up his glass and watching the clear liquid swirl as he swings it in a circle. He wishes it were amber instead. “Just been busy. All the kids heading back to school again, surgery has been swamped with jabs and colds. Flu’s coming round again. You know.”

“Uh huh,” Harry replies dubiously, but doesn’t call him out on the lie. He hasn’t done overtime since before… Not like they’d ask him to, even if he offered. “Well, if you can find some time in that busy schedule of yours, I think you should come out with us tomorrow night.”

“Us?”

“Clara and I. And … Clara’s friend Seb.”

John groans. “Like a double-date? Harry you know I’m not —”

“John, come on. You’ve been holed up at home for a solid year now. When is the last time you did anything outside of your flat besides going to work?”

John is struck for a moment at Harry’s statement. He can’t believe a year has passed. It still seems like just yesterday James had been beside him. They were so happy, their lives full of promise. Now John is only drowning, caught between vivid flashes of excruciating pain and the suffocating numb haze of grief on a daily basis. But he can’t tell Harry that. She, and the rest of society, expect he is moving on, ‘getting over it.’ It’s easier to stay home alone than pretend he is coping. “I go out,” he finally manages to protest.

“The weekly shopping doesn’t count.”

John decides it’s not the time to mention he has his single bag of groceries delivered now, but surely the haircut he’d had last week counts. He runs his hand through his hair, surprised by the length. Must have been a few weeks back, then. No matter.

“I’m not good company, anyway,” he argues.

“You’re fine company. Clara and I miss you, and Clara says Seb is a decent guy. He’s a banker. I think you two will hit it off.”

“Why? What on Earth do I have in common with a _banker?”_

“I don’t know, but even if you don’t … just come out and get a bite with us. Get some air. Get out of your flat. It’ll be good for you.”

John looks down at the tangled sheets on the couch, and the stack of dirty dishes on the table. Half-full bottles of ibuprofen and zolpidem are scattered across the table, a bottle of paracetamol has rolled underneath. A thick layer of dust coats the pictures on the mantle that he can’t bring himself to look at anymore. Heavy, stale quiet lays heavily over all of it. Nothing ever happens to him now.

His General … his _husband_ would be so upset to see him living this way. The thought of James makes his chest ache, pain that has become as familiar as breathing.

He suddenly wants to get as far from this place as he can. “Alright,” he agrees with a sigh, and regrets it already.

 

* * *

 

The pub is crowded when John walks in, and it takes everything in him to not turn around and walk right out. He grits his teeth and clenches his fists, running his thumb along his ring finger. He feels naked without his wedding band on his left hand for the first time in years, his right hand awkward with it now instead. After a moment of searching, he spots Harry and Clara standing in the bar area.

“So good to see you, John!” Clara greets him with a kiss on the cheek. She holds him at arm’s length and gives him a once over. Trying valiantly to look genuine, she says, “you’re looking well.”

John’s lost at least stone this year, and he hadn’t had much extra to begin with. When he can bear to see his own reflection, he looks gaunt and haggard. “Thanks,” he says anyway.

“There’s my little brother!” Harry says, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “We’ve just put our names in for a table, should only be a few more minutes.” She turns toward a tall man standing up against the bar watching them expectantly. “John, this is Sebastian Wilkes. Sebastian, this is my brother John Watson.”

Sebastian licks his bright white teeth before he smiles, and John is instantly put off. “Pleasure to meet you,” he says, giving John’s hand a strong shake. He’s a relatively handsome man, tall, with dark hair and a strong jaw, but his eyes are predatory as he looks John up and down, as if he’s eyeing his meal instead of a new acquaintance.  

“Sebastian is in banking,” Clara supplies helpfully.

“And John is a doctor,” Harry adds, and then to John’s horror, they excuse themselves to go to the loo, leaving him alone with his sharky companion.

“So,” Sebastian starts. “A doctor, eh? That must be exciting. Seen a lot of gore, I imagine? Got any good stories?”

John is taken aback at Sebastian’s bluntness. Images of blood and sand, and the echoing screams of dying men make his breath catch in his throat. Now, it’s followed quickly by the memory of flashing blue lights on wet asphalt, and mangled metal. James whisked away through swinging hospital doors. Crimson beneath John’s fingernails.

“Just … uh local surgery work. General practice,” John manages after an awkward moment. He wonders if Harry had mentioned anything about his time in the army to the man, or if he was just ignorant and cocky. Did he know John was a widower? He swallows around a lump in his throat, and Sebastian’s brow furrows. He’s quickly distracted when he realizes John’s hands are empty.

“Where are my manners? Let’s get you a drink.”

“Oh. Ta. Water is fine —"

“Water?” Sebastian says with a laugh, “Nah, we’ve got to start the night off right! What’s your poison, John? G and T? Scotch?”

“No, really, just water —”

“Ah, you’re a whiskey man like me, I can tell.” He catches the bartender's eye and taps his glass, then holds up two fingers and points at John.

“Really, Sebastian, thanks, but I’d rather have —”

“Nonsense! It’s on me,” he says, as if this is all a matter of money, as he lays a hand on John’s shoulder.

John resists the urge to squirm away from the touch. He doesn’t want to explain his sobriety to this smarmy stranger, but he’s stayed strong for so long and giving in and taking the drink under pressure feels like a slippery slope. He hates himself for being tempted, but the truth of the matter is, he is.

The bartender sets two lowball glasses of whiskey in front of Sebastian and John, and a tall glass of water in front of the patron beside them.

Before John can reach for the drink, long, pale fingers reach out and snag it away. “I’m sorry,” the owner of the fingers says in a deep, smooth baritone. “Barkeep must have gotten our order mixed up.” He nudges the water toward John with his other hand. John turns to protest automatically, but the man, thin and pale with a mop of raven curls on his head and a mischievous gleam in his eye, only winks. And John understands.

“What the —” Sebastian sputters. “He certainly didn’t mix up our orders, mate. I definitely ordered that whiskey, and I _heard you_ order that water.”

The thin man calmly turns on his barstool to face Sebastian. “They really should do something about the acoustics in this pub. Incredible that you somehow managed to hear me order water, but didn’t seem to notice when your companion did the same. _Three times.”_

John chokes on the surprised laugh that almost bubbles out of him.

Sebastian’s jaw drops a moment before his face contorts in anger. “Bugger off, and give him back his drink! No wait, sod that. John, don’t drink it,” Sebastian says, disgusted. “He may have put something in it. I’ll get you another.”

“Our table’s ready,” Harry says, popping up suddenly behind them with a smile, oblivious to what has just happened. “You can order more drinks from the waitress.”

Sebastian glares at the thin man a moment before turning to follow Harry to the table. “I’ll make sure this one goes on my tab,” the man calls after him. As the thin man turns back to face the bar, John picks up the glass of water and gives him a small but grateful smile.

“Thank you for … for doing that. I’ll get it for you.” John reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

The thin man waves away the offer. “Not necessary. I needed to order something anyway. Couldn't make up my mind. And the bartender already has my card.”

“I insist,” John says, and hands his own bank card to the bartender for the drink.

The thin man ducks his head in thanks. “Sorry I upset your boyfriend.”

“Oh! No, he’s not my — _no._ Not my boyfriend. Just met him tonight. My sister set us up on a blind date. At this rate it’ll be the first and last one.”

“So he’s deaf and she’s blind,” the thin man says with a twinkle in his eye, then looks away. “You must have your hands full managing people who can’t understand you.”

John laughs, in a way he hasn’t done in the longest time. “Cheers to that,” he says, completely taken aback by the soft smile that plays out over the man’s face, beautiful cupid’s bow lips quirking up under sharp cheekbones. In the dim pub lighting, it’s hard to tell what color his eyes are (green? blue?), but regardless, John can see they’re striking. Although he’s sure he’s never laid eyes on this  man in his life (how could he forget that face?), John feels sure he knows him somehow, that they’ve met before.

He takes a shaky breath and clinks their glasses together, relishing the cool drink that follows. John turns to see Harry heading back through the crowd to get him, clearly irritated at his absence. He signs the tab and shoves his credit card back in his wallet quickly.

“I’ve got to…” he finishes the sentence with a tilt of his head toward the dining room, and the thin man nods and smiles, then holds up the glass in silent cheers again. “Good luck.”

“Ta. And really, thanks again,” John says, raising his water in return.

 

* * *

 

He makes it through appetizers before he cracks. Sebastian is as pompous with the waiter as he was at the bar. He berates the poor kid serving them for the lack of gluten-free pasta options, then quizzes him on the source of the steaks practically down to the address of the farm the cow resided on. By the time it’s his turn to order, John’s appetite is non-existent. He surreptitiously pulls up the texting app on his phone and makes a show of pretending he’s just received one from work, excusing himself to take the call.

Harry shoots daggers at him when he finally returns, full of fake dismay that he has to go back into the surgery.

“At this time of night?” she asks incredulously, and John shrugs, feigning helplessness. For his part, Sebastian only seems inconvenienced at the realization he won’t be getting a shag tonight, though if he had asked John, he would have known that was never going to happen to begin with.

He glances toward the bar on his way out, but the owner of the raven curls is already gone.  

At the tube station, he stops at a kiosk to refill his Oyster card. Pulling his bank card from his wallet, his eyes catch on unfamiliar silver letters. Although the blue swirl design on the front is the same, this bank card belongs to someone named SHERLOCK HOLMES. The bartender must have mixed up cards from the same bank.

John replays the scene in his mind. He had handed the bartender the card, explained the drink should be removed from the thin man’s tab and instead charged to … oh. _Oh._ There must have been a misunderstanding. Did he now have the thin man’s card? Was the thin man’s name Sherlock Holmes? John is surprised to find himself smiling at the prospect. If he has Sherlock Holmes’ card, Sherlock Holmes likely has his. Maybe they could meet again to exchange them. His stomach does an excited little flip.

He’s just walked in the door to his flat when his phone buzzes with a text from Harry, filled with angry red emoticons.  He rubs a hand over his eyes and closes the app, about to shove his mobile back in his pocket when he sees he has an e-mail.

His stomach drops when he sees the sender.

 **_NHS Blood and Transplant - Donor Family Care Department  
_** **_New Message from Donor Recipient_ **

 

* * *

 

The warm rays of sunlight that wake John the next morning do little to heat the cold room. He rolls over and burrows deeper under the duvet, humming sleepily. He pushes his hands through the sheets, searching for a familiar warmth, but the fabric is cold. He takes a deep breath through his nose, stretches languidly, and cracks his eyes open. It takes him a moment to realize where he is. He’s in the bedroom. In bed. _Their_ bed. Alone.

He hasn’t woken up here since the morning of the gala.

Last night after reading the donor e-mail, he’d needed so badly to be close to James. Desperate, he had settled for wrapping himself up in the last place they’d lain together. His cheeks are stiff with the dried tears he shed in darkness, and he lays for a moment staring at the ceiling, waiting for more to come.

They don’t. In fact, John feels lighter this morning. Like he can breathe a little easier, like the world has a bit more color. For the first time, his grief seems manageable, razor sharpness filed down to a nearly tolerable ache.

John swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands, allowing himself to really look at the room for the first time in a long time. It might as well be a time capsule. Their mussed sheets, James’ slippers on the floor, a mystery novel that John never finished on the nightstand. In this, their most intimate space, everything tells their story. Still, although John’s eyes prickle, he finds himself smiling at the memories.

With a sigh, he begins to strip as he walks to the ensuite to shower, but pauses at the last minute, using his vest to wipe away the thick layer of dust that’s settled over the full-length mirror.

 

* * *

 

It’s been awhile since John’s used his laptop, so much so that it takes him nearly 15 minutes to find it. The battery has long gone dead. He plugs it in and waits for it to boot, thankful when he remembers the password on the first try.

With the help of Google Images, John confirms Sherlock Holmes is indeed the thin handsome man from the pub. A few more clicks lead him to _The Science of Deduction_ , and he loses almost an hour on the site, fascinated and more than a bit amused.

Sherlock Holmes is a “consulting detective” (the world’s only, apparently). He solves crimes through his “deductions” and also seems to enjoy experimenting on all levels of minutiae. John spends a good deal of his time on the website with raised eyebrows, but bites back a few smiles as well. He can hear that deep baritone that put Sebastian in his place as he reads through Sherlock’s remarks to visitors foolish enough to comment on his posts.

 _If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential_ it says at the bottom of the page.

John copies down Sherlock’s e-mail address and moves to begin a new message, but then notices Sherlock has listed his home address as well. If he doesn’t mind clients popping by, surely he won’t mind John coming round to give him back his bank card. 221 Baker Street is only a few blocks off his route to the surgery anyway.

John reasons it’s much more convenient to swing by than try to coordinate a meeting via e-mail, and definitely _not_ just an excuse to see the man again so soon. No. Besides, cancelling credit cards is so inconvenient, best to catch Sherlock quickly before he went through the trouble. He might not even realize the mix-up yet. John should hurry. And if Sherlock isn’t home, well … he can always just pop it in his postbox.

This is purely a courtesy call, nothing else to it.

There’s also no reason he puts on a little aftershave and double checks his hair before he leaves the flat.

Nope. No reason. None at all.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock isn’t sure what wakes him, but when he checks his phone and sees it’s already past nine, he decides he might as well get up. He wraps the bedsheet around his naked body to shield him from the draughty flat and heads to the kitchen to make tea. Yawning, he rubs a hand over his eyes and steps around the taxidermied armadillo blocking half the hall.

He’s nearly reached the kettle when small, choked noise stops him dead in his tracks. His head snaps up to find the handsome blond man from the pub in his sitting room. Like a deer in the headlights, Sherlock finds himself frozen, except for one hand that manages to slide higher on the sheet, clutching it tighter over his chest.

The blond man is staring wide-eyed at his own feet, cheeks flushed pink. “I’m _so_ sorry, I didn’t mean to — your landlady let me in, she said to come up, and the door was open — I knocked —”

Sherlock swallows and blinks a few times before he manages to snap out of it. “It’s fine,” he says, and fights to employ his usual impassive expression. “What can I do to you — FOR YOU — What can I do FOR you?” he chokes, mortified.

The man holds up the blue plastic rectangle Sherlock sees practically every day. “At the, uh … at the pub last night … seems the barkeep mixed up our bank cards.” His eyes dart up to Sherlock’s sheepishly before looking at the floor again, but there’s something else there too. He’s _amused_ by the situation. Sherlock doesn’t quite know how to process that fact, but it doesn’t seem like a bad thing.

“I just wanted to get it back to you, so I thought I’d Google you —” he winces, backpedaling. “I mean — yeah, _wow_ that sounds bad. I mean _I_ _looked you up on Google,”_ he amends, “and saw you’d listed the address to your flat and thought it would be quicker if I just swung by on my way to work …” he trails off helplessly.

Sherlock can’t help but narrow his eyes at this fascinating creature. Although he himself is clad in nothing but a bedsheet, the man before him is definitely the most naked one in the room. He’s surprised to realize he finds it endearing.

His eyes flick over the man, noting his posture (former military — army), carefully smoothed hair and the spicy hint of expensive aftershave (trying to impress). His hands clench and unclench compulsively (nervous), tan line and slight indentation on the left ring finger (recent divorce?). A glance at his right hand clarifies (widower).

“Thank you,” Sherlock manages, and the man finally lets his eyes drift up to Sherlock’s and stay there. He offers an abashed grin and moves to hand the bank card to Sherlock, who reaches for it a split second before he realizes that also means letting go of the sheet. He pulls his hand back to catch the fabric before it falls away from his chest.

“Sorry,” the man says, instead setting the card down on the table, “I should be going.”

Sherlock feels something inside his chest clench at the thought of watching this man walk out the door. “Wait,” he says. “If you got my card I probably have yours, let me check.”

Back in the bedroom, he dresses in record time, buttoning his shirt up to his throat and pulling on the trousers from last night, but without a shower his hair is a lost cause. He strides back out feeling more confident nonetheless, and the blond man seems relieved to see they’re on more equal footing now, wardrobe-wise. Sherlock digs in his pocket for his wallet. Indeed the bank card within is not his own.

“John Watson, I presume?” he says, raising his eyebrows as he holds it up.

“That’d be me,” John replies with a grin.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Sherlock says with a smile.

John grins. “Likewise.”

Sherlock’s breath catches at the way John’s face lights up, somehow so _familiar._ Their eyes meet, and it feels like they’re having a lifetime of conversations in the space of a heartbeat.

John swallows and huffs out a laugh. “I know this might be a bit forward but … would you like to go out with me? Maybe … dinner?”

Somehow, Sherlock is already starving.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo... you may have noticed the final chapter count went up one chapter. This chapter sort of spiraled into a monster, and it just ended up better to cut it in two. Hopefully you'll agree with me that we can never have too much of these two idiots in love ;)

 

A loud, familiar noise like a small hoover grows louder as Greg makes his way up the stairs to 221B. He peeks his head into the kitchen, then the sitting room. “Sherlock? You in?”

The roaring sound stops. “Busy,” comes a flippant call from the bathroom. “Go away.” There’s a click and then the noise starts up again, like air rushing. Suddenly Greg realizes … it’s a hairdryer.

He rolls his eyes and steps into the kitchen, yelling over the din. “Need you to come by the Yard for a statement on the Murphy case.”

The hairdryer stops, and there’s a growl of frustration and a thunk. Finally Sherlock emerges, dressed in a deep aubergine shirt and black trousers, hair still damp but perfectly coiffed. “I told you already. The peaches in her fruit bowl clearly prove that —”

“Yes, but I need an _official_ statement if we want it to hold up in court. You know that,” Lestrade chides.

“Then come back tomorrow,” Sherlock replies dismissively. He looks at his watch and checks his pockets, glancing around for a moment before he snatches his keys off the worktop. He picks up his belt from where it lays draped over a kitchen chair and starts to thread it through the loops at his waist.

“And where are you rushing off to? Your life consists of the Frankenstein’s lab that is this flat, and working cases for me. Are your parents in town or something?”

Sherlock’s shoulders slump a little but he doesn’t look up from his belt buckle. “If you really _must_ know, I have a … date,” he says nonchalantly, popping the last t.

Lestrade’s jaw drops in surprise and his eyes go wide, “I’m sorry, _what?_ _You_ have a _date?”_

Sherlock frowns. “Yes. It’s where two people who like eachother go out and have fun.”

“Yeah, I know what a date is,” Lestrade chuckles, “but quite frankly I didn’t think _you_ did.”

“You told me to go meet people, did you not? So. I’ve met people. Well, _a_ person, anyway.”

Their conversation is cut short as Mrs Hudson pops in with a “yoohoo!” She says hello to Lestrade, then turns to Sherlock. “I’ve just made that stew I know you like, dear, I was wondering if you’d like me to set you a place at the table.”

“I’ll have to pass tonight, Mrs Hudson,” he says, and Lestrade almost offers to take his place. The whole building smells heavenly, like garlic and onions, rosemary and savory beef.

“Sherlock has a date,” Lestrade adds with a proud grin.

“Oooh, a date!” Mrs Hudson coos, clapping her hands together in delight. “That’s wonderful, Sherlock! Is it with that handsome blond from yesterday?”

Lestrade’s eyebrows jump toward his hairline. “A handsome blond? When do I get to meet him?”

“Never,” Sherlock mutters just as the doorbell chimes.

“I’ll get it!” Mrs Hudson offers, and practically darts out of the flat, bad hip be damned.

Sherlock spins to the mirror, double-checking his top button and running a hand over his curls. He turns back when he hears footsteps on the stairs, and Lestrade catches the brief panic that flashes across his face.

“You’ll be fine,” he whispers fondly, giving Sherlock a confidence-bolstering nod of approval. Moments later, a man appears in the doorway.

Sherlock lights up at the sight, expression reflected on his date’s face. “John,” he manages, sounding a bit winded. Lestrade can’t believe what he’s seeing. Sherlock Holmes looks positively _smitten._

“Hi,” the man — John — says with a shy smile, then looks at Greg. “Sorry, I hope I’m not interrupting —”

“No, no, he was just leaving,” Sherlock insists, and Greg nods quickly.

“Come by The Yard tomorrow, then,” he concedes, moving toward the door as John steps forward into the room. Behind John’s back, he gives Sherlock an overly impressed look, with a pair of thumbs-up for good measure. Sherlock glares at him, an obvious order: “GET OUT.”

Lestrade doesn’t need to be told twice, and chuckles in wonder his whole way back to The Yard.

 

* * *

 

“That was delicious,” John says as they exit the restaurant. The night air is chilly and he loops his blue cashmere scarf around his neck.

Beside him, Sherlock hums his agreement.  

“That Angelo really seems to like you. I’ve never had the owner of a restaurant personally prepare my meal.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I got him off a murder charge a few months back. I successfully proved to Lestrade at the time of a particularly vicious triple homicide that Angelo was in a completely different part of town, house-breaking. He did a few months instead of a few decades. Says he owes me.”

“That’s incredible,” John says as they turn toward the south bank of the Thames. A bit stereotypical for a date, he knows, but the London Eye does offer some beautiful views.

It’s a weeknight, but there are plenty of tourists milling about in the plaza. The smell of roasted cinnamon almonds and calliope music are heavy in the air as John buys their tickets.

“Any chance we might get our own capsule?” he asks the woman directing the queue.

She gives them a knowing smile and shrugs. “It’s not usually an option, but if you don’t mind the cold, we’ve got one that’s technically out of order because the heat isn’t working.” Sherlock nods in agreement, pulling his long coat tighter around him.

Cool blue lights light up the large glass pod. They take seats in the center and slowly, slowly, the London skyline starts to fall away beneath them.

“So, you used deductions to help Angelo, then?” John asks to break the silence. Sherlock’s eyes narrow and he tilts his head a bit, as if he’s trying to decide if John is teasing him.

“Well … you said on your website that you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot by his left thumb,” he admits sheepishly.

“Yes, that’s right,” Sherlock confirms, “and I can read your military service in the way you stand.”

John’s feels his eyebrows raise. His stomach clenches a little, and he suddenly feels poised to fall from this great height. He swallows. “What else can you see? About me, I mean.”

Sherlock purses his lips and looks at John, but it seems more like he’s debating with himself than looking for more information. Perhaps he already figured it all out at the pub or his flat.

“I know you work a job you don’t enjoy, but you don’t have the energy to look for anything else, so you keep on where you’re at since it pays the bills. I know from our encounter at the pub that you avoid alcohol, which suggests you’ve struggled with addiction.” He pauses a moment, proceeding with more hesitation. “And I know you were married,” he says, looking away, “but you wear your wedding ring on your right hand now, which suggests your spouse is deceased. Your sister is trying to set you up on blind dates, so in her opinion enough time has passed, but you only went along to appease her, not because you’re actively looking.”

John is surprised to find he isn’t upset. Actually, he’s … impressed. “That ... was amazing.”

Sherlock’s shoulders dip in relief, as if he’s been holding his breath. “Do you think so?”

John smiles. “Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary.” He takes a deep breath and steels himself, letting his eyes drift to Big Ben, grandly illuminated in the distance. “You’re right on all counts. I was in the army. Did a tour of Afghanistan before I was shot and invalided back.” He clears his throat. “I was married for almost five years. James was my General. I was a Captain. We grew close enough over there, but … active warzones do strange things to people. I wasn’t sure if he felt the same way, and he was my commanding officer, so it wouldn’t have been appropriate to act on it even if I’d known he did.

“Then I got shot, and two weeks later he was ambushed, and we both ended up recovering in the same hospital in London. Having someone who understood it all the way he did … everything we’d been through … it made it a lot easier to come back to civilian life. We helped each other through the worst of it. Got married a year later, and James started working with other recovering veterans around the same time.

“He always gave every piece of himself trying to help others. He’d single-handedly saved his entire battalion of ‘crows’ the day he’d been ambushed. When we got back, he realized what a deficit there for veterans looking for social and emotional support, not to mention professional counseling. He started planning the Veteran’s Mental Health Center right away.”

John drops his eyes and sniffs. “He was killed in a car crash last year.”

Sherlock is stricken. “My deepest condolences.”

“Thanks,” John says with a sad smile. “The drinking got a little out of hand after that, and … anyways. Need to keep my head clear to make sure the Mental Health Center gets finished on schedule.” He rubs his hands on his knees, then stands. “Anyway,” he says, “enough doom and gloom. We’re supposed to be having fun.”

He tilts his head to the skyline. “Quite a view,” he says as Sherlock stands next to him. “One of the most beautiful in the world, I think.”

“I’ve never seen another,” Sherlock admits softly, without thinking.

John reels back in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, since I was young I was stuck in hospital because …” he trails off suddenly, looking a bit startled, then quickly elaborates. “Because of my brother. He was ill. I had to take care of him. Never had time to get away.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” John says, voice full of sympathy. “Is he —”

“Oh, he’s fine now,” Sherlock says a bit too forcefully. “Hates talking about it. Dreadful experience. Doesn’t like being reminded. Ever.”

“Yeah, that must have been hard. For both of you,” John says, moving closer. Their arms touch. Sherlock shivers. He looks down at his chest in alarm. “Oh. My scarf —”

“You must have forgotten it at the restaurant,” John frowns. He loosens his own from his neck. “Here, take mine.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to protest. “Thank you,” he says instead.

“John, this is embarrassing … but I’ve never been on a date before. This might be a bit … juvenile to ask, but would it be alright if I hold your hand?”

John’s eyes meet his, and he answers with a smile, then slips his hand into Sherlock’s, intertwining their fingers and squeezing. Suddenly the night doesn't seem so chilly anymore. Beneath them, the city sparkles.

 

* * *

 

“I had a lovely time tonight,” Sherlock says as they arrive back at 221.

John smiles in agreement. “I’d love to do it again sometime, if you want —”

“Yes!” Sherlock replies eagerly. Too quickly. He clears his throat and tries again. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“How about … Friday?”

“Perfect.”

They share a grin, and Sherlock drops his eyes a moment when his nerves get the best of him. He realizes he’s still wrapped in blue cashmere. “I should give you your scarf back,” he says, and starts to pull the knot loose.

“No, no, it looks good on you,” John says, putting his hand over Sherlock’s to stop him. “You should keep it. I’ll get it back next time.” He reaches for the hanging ends to tighten the loop, taken completely off guard when a split second after his hand brushes Sherlock’s sternum, Sherlock slaps him across the face.

John yelps and grabs his smarting cheek, looking up in shock.

Sherlock looks just as surprised, and stares down at his own hand in wide-eyed mortified betrayal. “Oh, God, John! I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to —”

“I was just trying to tighten the —”

“No, I know, I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry! I don’t know what came over me — I just … I wasn’t expecting — ”

John is hopelessly bewildered. “I wasn’t _trying to — ”_

“No, no, of course not, of course you weren’t. It’s just that I … I had a h — I had a h — hard talk — I had a hard talk with myself earlier and I think it’s best if we take it slow.” Sherlock manages at last, wincing at his own pathetic ad lib.

John nods, still confounded by the sudden turn of events. “Yeah, no … that’s fine, I mean, I wasn’t trying to feel you up or anything —”

“No, no, I didn’t think you were …”

“We can go slow, that’s fine.”

“Good. That’s … good. Great,” Sherlock says, and suddenly, as if he’s drawn in by a magnet, without thinking, he leans forward and presses his lips to John’s in a soft, sweet kiss. His heart soars beneath his ribs, a high better than any adrenaline rush could ever give him. He pulls back and grins at John’s wide eyes, and the adorable way his mouth has fallen open the littlest bit. “Goodnight,” he squeaks, and quickly disappears inside, leaving John stupefied and grinning on the sidewalk.

 

  



	4. Chapter 4

“Good morning, Cynthia!” John beams brightly at the startled woman behind the check-in desk as he bounces into work.

“Arthur, you’re looking well!” He claps a hand on the startled custodian’s shoulder. “Still jogging? Keep it up, it shows!”

“Uh, thank you, Doctor Watson,” Arthur stammers, the reply almost a question. John doesn’t notice.

“Ah, there’s the hardest working team in the NHS!” he cheerfully declares at the nurses station. They look up from their computers and clipboards in shock. He reaches in his bag and pulls out a big box of chocolates, grinning. “Definitely deserving of a special tea today! Well, _everyday,_ but we've got to start somewhere!”

When they look at each other in surprise, a good mix of narrowed eyes, dropped jaws, and raised eyebrows, John’s already whistling his way down the hall to his office.

 

* * *

 

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson gasps, standing in the sitting room.

Sherlock looks up from his microscope. “Mmm?”

She looks positively perplexed. “Did you … dust? And … _hoover?”_

“I thought the room could use a tidying,” he says defensively.

“You’re expecting company, aren’t you! Seeing John again?”

He purses his lips primly. “Perhaps.”

“That’s the third time this week! Doing something special or just staying in?” He ignores the knowing look she sends his way.

“Going out. Lestrade has a homicide he needs help with. I think John might enjoy it. There’s no point sitting at home when there’s finally something _fun_ going on!”

“Look at you, all happy over bringing your boyfriend to a murder scene. It’s not _decent,”_ she chastises, but the smile on her face betrays her.

 

* * *

 

John picks up flowers on the way to Baker Street, then second-guesses himself. Is it too feminine? Too formal? Would Sherlock think it was awkward? At the last moment he ducks into an alley full of skips, pulling one rose from the bunch before binning the rest.

Sherlock accepts the flower with a small smile and a blush, and slides it into his buttonhole without a second thought.

“Thought we’d do something a little different tonight,” he says with a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

John is only mildly surprised when the cab drops them off at a crime scene. He’s more shocked when he’s allowed past the yellow tape with Sherlock after an acidic conversation with a Sergeant named Donovan. Sherlock has completely transformed — a cool, confident, stoic façade that accentuates his genius and discourages personal connection. It’s a far cry from the shy man who’d asked to hold John’s hand a few short days ago. As the Sergeant barks into her radio and leads them to the crime scene, Sherlock shoots John a quick wink.

“What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?” John whispers as they walk in. Cops swarm the scene, artificial lights illuminating the stairs.

“Having fun,” Sherlock whispers back, low enough so Donovan won’t hear. John bites his lip to stop from smiling. How did Sherlock already know him well enough to know that he would be excited by this type of thing?

A familiar face ducks out of a doorway. The silver-haired man from the flat on their first date. “Thanks for coming,” he says to Sherlock before noticing John. His mouth drops a moment and he looks at Sherlock as if to say, _really?_ Then rubs a hand over his eyes and mutters, “I don’t know what I expected.” He sighs then looks up at John with a polite smile. “We didn’t get introduced properly the other day. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. John, was it?”

“Yes, John Watson,” John says, shaking Lestrade’s hand.

“John is a doctor,” Sherlock asserts. “I thought he might offer some insight on our victim.” This is news to John.

“Yeah, sure,” the DI says dubiously over his shoulder as he starts to make his way upstairs. “Come on, I’ll show you where the body is.”

 

* * *

 

“And your call with the Prime Minister is scheduled for 9am, tomorrow. All the files have been updated and the link is on your desktop.”

“Splendid,” Mycroft says with a nod, although his expression remains stoic as ever. “Anything else?”

“Yes, Sir,” Anthea replies hesitantly, then lays a thick file folder on his desk. “Surveillance of your brother’s flat on Baker Street has turned up a new visitor. He’s been seen entering and leaving the flat multiple times in the past two weeks.”

“What are the nature of these visits? I should have been informed sooner.”

Anthea ducks her head the slightest bit but maintains eye contact. “It appears it may be a … romantic entanglement, sir.”

Mycroft tilts his head slightly, cocking one eyebrow. “Surely, you can’t be serious.”

Anthea steps forward and opens the folder, spreading black and white photographs across Mycroft’s desk. The subject in question is a short, trim man with light hair and a military posture.

“John Watson,” Anthea begins without preamble. “Ex-military. Currently employed as a GP in South Hampstead. He visited the flat for the first time two weeks ago, stayed for 17 minutes. On his second visit he encountered DI Lestrade and Mr Holmes’ landlady, then left with your brother shortly after. They went for dinner and then took a private ride on the London Eye. Third time, he brought what appeared to be flowers, but then seemed to rethink his decision and binned them, except for a single stem.” She pushes the photograph of John Watson holding the bouquet aside to reveal another of Sherlock exiting the flat with him, grins on both their faces. “You’ll notice the flower is affixed to your brother’s lapel in this photograph.”

Mycroft’s jaw falls open and he snaps it shut and sits up straighter, then begins leafing through the pictures himself.

“Most recent reports put them together at crime scenes.”

Sure enough, pictures of the two men standing near a body framed by crime scene tape make an appearance near the bottom of the pile. The most solid evidence, however, are surreptitious shots of Sherlock and John Watson holding hands on Tower Bridge, and a grainy picture of them kissing on the doorstep of 221.

Anthea excuses herself and Mycroft sits back in his chair a moment, steepling his fingers over his chest, trying to wrap his head around the sudden turn of events. He never imagined Sherlock would fall in love. Or at least, with someone who seemed to reciprocate.

Sherlock had been an odd child, and his chronic illness hadn’t done much to help his social skills. When he’d had occasion to interact with other teenagers or young adults, whether in or out of hospital, it had never gone well. Mycroft was sure his brother would never learn — people did not appreciate their entire life laid bare in public moments after meeting him. Still, eventually the constant rejections caught up to Sherlock enough that he embraced solitude and gave up on socialization.

Perhaps this new heart _has_ given him something — Mycroft shakes himself. What is wrong with him? It’s ridiculous to even entertain such ridiculous sentimentality.

Regardless, first love is almost always followed by first heartbreak, and Mycroft has spent half his life trying to protect Sherlock’s heart in every way he can. He should warn Sherlock. The pain of loss isn’t worth it in the end. But looking back down at the pictures, Mycroft is struck by how genuinely _happy_ Sherlock is — young and carefree and hopeful in a way Mycroft has never even seen a glimpse of before. And it’s plain as day, the reason lies with the army doctor at his brother’s side.

Maybe he should give them a chance. With a sigh, Mycroft carefully collects the photographs in a stack, lays them to the side, and begins to read John Watson’s file.

 

* * *

 

John runs his thumbs over his ring fingers self-consciously. For the first time in more than six years, he has voluntarily left his wedding band at home. He expected it to feel more like a betrayal than it does, but that morning, looking around at the flat he’d finally found the will to clean for the first time in a year, he was only able to imagine his husband smiling. James would be proud to see John had found something to be happy about again, someone that made him grin.

He knew if the situation were reversed and James had been the one left behind after John died, John would feel the same. The idea of James growing old, filled with bitterness and despair, _alone,_ made John’s heart ache. He would have wanted his husband to be loved and appreciated, to have someone wonderful to spend his days with. To convince him that being the surviving spouse meant more than merely _surviving_. And as hard as it was to admit, he knew James would want the same for him.

So he’d taken off his ring and held it together with James’, two bands of worn gold glinting side-by-side between his thumb and forefinger. He’d placed both to his lips in a kiss, then laid them together on the dresser next to their wedding photo. With a hard sniff, he blinked to clear the tears, and left the flat to meet Sherlock without guilt.

 

* * *

 

“Your testimony really sealed the deal,” Lestrade says to Sherlock at the sinks in the courthouse loo. “Nice work.”

“Just presenting the facts,” Sherlock replies cooly. “You might want to have Anderson look the word up in the dictionary. It's obvious from his testimony he has no grasp of the concept. In fact, have him look up the word concept while he’s at it.”

Lestrade ignores the barb. “Well, a couple of the guys and I are gonna grab a pint, and celebrate the conviction.” he says as he grabs a paper towel and dries his hands. “We’d like it if you joined us. And Anderson won’t be there.”

Sherlock checks his hair in the bathroom mirror. “Sorry Grisham, I’ve got places to be.”

Lestrade leans against the tiled wall. “Ah, seeing John tonight, then? You should bring him. The team’s been asking after him. He’s even won over Donovan.”

Sherlock can’t decide how he feels about the fact that his boyfriend has become fast friends with everyone at the Yard, but the current frontrunning emotion is pride. Besides being good with other people, Sherlock is surprised at what a true asset John is on cases. He can think so much more clearly with John around, acting like a conductor of light, helping Sherlock focus his racing thoughts. John has been instrumental in Sherlock’s new record; six cases solved in less than eight weeks.

He rolls his eyes for show. “We’ve barely been dating two months, surely you don’t think we’re desperate enough for activities to go to the pub with half of New Scotland Yard for a _pint.”_ He smooths his shirt, tugging at his collar to make sure his top button is secure.

Their eyes meet in the mirror. “Yeah … speaking of _activities_ …” Lestrade trails off, and Sherlock’s hand unconsciously clutches his top button tightly as he processes the innuendo.

“You haven’t told him yet, have you?” Lestrade says, one hand on his hip. “Surely you don’t mean to keep your shirt on forever. What about when you … _you know ..?”_

Sherlock frowns. “What?”

Lestrade grimaces uncomfortably. “You know. In the … bedroom.”

Sherlock is scandalized. “Not that it’s your business, but we’re taking it slowly!”

“Well, I’ll say! You two must have the patience of priests.”

 _“Change the subject,”_ Sherlock grits out through clenched teeth and strides to the door of the loo. Greg follows.

They keep pace in the hall for a moment before Greg starts in again. “I’m just saying, you need to tell him. Just get it over with. If anything it might make him appreciate you even more.”

“I don’t want him to treat me differently,” Sherlock scoffs. The idea of John looking at him like he is broken is unbearable. Would he be too worried to let Sherlock go on cases? Would he scold Sherlock like Mycroft and Lestrade do, trying to stop him from pushing himself to the limit? The only things that had ever made Sherlock feel so alive were the work and John. He didn’t want the inconvenient fact that he had a heart transplant to change any of it.

“Then _explain_ that to him. John’s a decent guy, I’m sure he’ll understand. And it’s obvious he’s gone on you. But you can’t keep it a secret forever, Sherlock.”

 

* * *

 

 _“That heart does not belong to you!”_ John hisses as Sherlock opens the specimen fridge in the morgue and begins to pack his small cooler full of parts. His breath catches in his chest for a moment before John continues: “That liver and those lungs too! Jesus, are those … thumbs?”

“It’s alright,” a feminine voice says behind them. “I save it all for him.” John turns to see a petite woman in a lab coat smiling shyly.

“Yes, thank you Molly,” Sherlock says as he stands. “John, this is Barts’ pathologist Molly Hooper. Molly, this is my boyfriend, John Watson.”

Molly smiles as they shake hands. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

Sherlock’s eyes go wide and he flushes. “What? No you haven’t.”

Molly rolls her eyes and smiles at John while addressing Sherlock. “No? Some other handsome doctor you’re dating, then?”

Sherlock pales and looks at John in fear. “I assure you, there is no other —”

John nudges him playfully. “I know that, you git. She’s teasing.” He grins at Molly. “So you’re the one I have to thank for keeping his ice box full of human remains?”

She nods somberly. “Indeed. The greater London-area cemeteries are thrilled too. Put an end to all his grave robbing.”

Sherlock tries to protest, but he’s drowned out by their hysterical laughter.

 

* * *

 

“Thank you, dear!” Mrs Hudson says as John descends the ladder, dead lightbulb in hand.

“Not a problem, Mrs H.” John hands her the bulb and dusts his hands off on his jeans. “Anything else around here need doing?”

She smiles fondly. “That’s sweet of you to ask, but Sherlock looks after me, you know.”

“As he should,” John says with a decisive nod, folding up the ladder. “But you’ve got me now, too, just in case.”

“How’s the Center coming along?” she asks when he comes back up from the basement storage area.

He straightens his back and smiles. “Back on schedule. The dedication is in two months. I’d love it if you could be there. Save you a seat right next to me and Sherlock.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She sends him back upstairs with a basket of orange scones still warm from the oven, and a kiss on the cheek.

 

* * *

 

“That was beautiful,” John sighs, opening his eyes as Sherlock drops his bow arm, the last note still lingering in the air. The fire crackles brightly in the fireplace. Outside the flat, the trees are nearly naked, crunchy leaves dancing down the street in the wind. “Pretty sure it’s my favorite.”

“I know,” Sherlock replies with a small smile as he packs his violin away.

“Come here,” John says, holding out his hand from his place on the sofa. Sherlock comes closer, leaning down for a kiss, John’s hands coming up to cradle his jaw. Sherlock hums in appreciation and kneels on the couch, straddling John’s lap.

John’s lips are soft and gentle, filling Sherlock with warmth deep in his chest. He handles Sherlock like he is precious —  almost breakable — which used to make Sherlock nervous until he saw the reverence in John’s eyes. He wasn’t afraid of hurting Sherlock, he was in _awe_ of him.

Sherlock leans into the kiss harder, snaking his arms around the strong planes of John’s back. John moans and licks into his mouth, nipping and tasting. Sherlock can feel John’s body responding, insistent against his, even through their clothes. In the countless times they’ve done this in the three months they’ve been together, they’ve never moved beyond a bit of grinding. It’s getting more and more difficult to practice restraint. John has never complained, although Sherlock almost has on multiple occasions before catching himself. If he can only get up the courage to tell John about his transplant, they could finally go further. It’s not as if Sherlock isn’t literally _aching_ to — he’s fantasized about touching John and being touched _by_ John _everywhere,_ even his scar _._ But he just can’t get the words out, has no clue how to start the conversation.

As if reading his mind, John’s lips move from his own to kiss his jaw, behind his ear, and down his neck. Sherlock gasps at the incredible sensation as John sucks at his pulse point, willing him to just stay there. He wishes he could just enjoy the moment without all his internal alarms blaring as they are now. As John’s mouth starts to move toward Sherlock’s collarbone, his hand comes up to undo the top button on Sherlock’s shirt.

Sherlock places a gentle hand over John’s and John pulls away.

“Sorry,” he gasps, taking a deep breath. He lays his head back on the couch and blows it out toward the ceiling. “Got carried away.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock says, bowing his head. His heart pounds with residual arousal and nerves. If he could just say it, just get the words out … why was this so impossible?

“Don’t be sorry,” John says, lifting his head to look Sherlock in the eyes. “I can wait. I want you to be ready.”

That was the problem, Sherlock thought. At this rate he felt like he never would be.

 

* * *

 

Blue lights strobe in the windows of the buildings on the high street. Harry cranes her neck as she approaches the source, police cars and yellow tape surrounding a large office building across from the entrance to the Underground. Feeling nosy, she decides she’ll catch the next train, and walks across the street to get closer to the action.

Uniformed police are everywhere. A plainclothes officer with a badge around her neck is interviewing a tearful woman in a custodian’s uniform. Nearby, men in business suits and grim expressions are talking, one of them pacing with his phone to his ear. Somber EMTs carry a stretcher into the building without urgency.

Someone must have died then, Harry reasons. She watches for a few minutes, trying to convince herself to leave before they come back out with the body, pretending she isn’t morbidly fascinated at the prospect. What ends up making her gasp, however, has nothing to do with a dead body and everything to do with a live one.

That can’t be … her _brother_ walking out of the building, surely? But … it _is!_

John is deep in conversation with a tall man in a long coat. As they move through the crowd, the man says something with a smirk and John laughs. He nudges the man playfully and they fight to school their expressions back to serious. Several constables turn to greet them. John and his companion pause to talk to a plainclothes officer with silver hair, who listens intently as the man begins talking.

John’s eyes eventually start to wander, idly skimming past Harry for a split second before his brain catches up and his eyes snap back to her. She gives a single small wave, then cocks an eyebrow and makes a show of looking around and gesturing at the chaos in query. He touches the tall man’s arm to interrupt the conversation and excuses himself from the group, jogging over to her.

“Harry! What are you doing here?”

“What am _I_ doing here? I was on the late shift tonight, just around the corner. I was walking to the tube and saw the commotion. Thought I’d scope it out. Figured I might have a good story to tell at work tomorrow.” She shoots him an amused look. “Guess I was right. What on _earth_ are you doing in _my_ neck of the woods at a _crime scene?”_

He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “Would you believe me if I said I was on a date?” Her eyes go wide and her jaw drops. He laughs. “Yeah, I know it’s a bit odd, but … I’ve been seeing this guy, he’s …” John tries not to grin and fails. “He’s really great. His name is Sherlock. He’s a consulting detective. He works with the Met to solve crimes and … I help.”

 _“You_ help solve _crimes_ … with your new boyfriend … _Sherlock,”_ Harry repeats, bewildered.

“I mean, that’s not _all_ we do, but … it’s definitely more exciting than going to the cinema.” Even in the dim street lights, Harry can see him blush. “He’s absolutely brilliant. I think you might like him.”

“Well, I haven’t seen you smile like _that_ in ages, so I suppose I already do,” she teases. “How long have you two been _solving crimes_ together?” she says with no small hint of innuendo.

John looks at the sky and does a bit of mental calculation. “Guess it’s been about three months now.”

 _“Three months?_ When were you planning on telling your sister, you great berk?” Over John’s shoulder, Harry sees the tall man approaching. “Oooh I think he’s coming over.”

“Good,” John says with a warm, genuine smile. “I’ll introduce you.”

 

* * *

 

Another case solved, another night high on adrenaline. They’re grinning as they walk in the door of John’s flat, kicking off shoes and hanging up coats.

“Another episode of Black Mirror?” John asks as he ducks into the loo to wash his hands. Sherlock hums in agreement. He’s never enjoyed watching television before, and he can’t tell if his new appreciation is because of the quality content, or the fact that John is wonderful to cuddle up with. Perhaps a bit of both.

“I was thinking Middle Eastern for dinner? We can have it delivered,” Sherlock says, leafing through the drawer in the kitchen where John keeps the takeaway menus.

“Mmm, sounds good,” John agrees, sidling up behind him and wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s waist. “Get extra falafel this time? Ooh and that pistachio baklava you know I like. I’ll go get the telly queued up.” He places a kiss between Sherlock’s shoulder blades before he goes, eliciting a playful shiver.

They take their usual spots on the couch, John sitting at one end, socked feet propped up on the coffee table, Sherlock laying back against him, head on John’s chest and his own feet up on the armrest at the far end. John’s fingers absently twine in Sherlock’s hair as the show starts.

They’ve developed a perfect sort of domesticity, both so at home in each other’s flats now, although they never spent the night. Still, it’s amazing how natural this has become, how comfortable and secure Sherlock feels right here in John’s arms, his head rising and falling with John’s every breath. He is struck by how incredibly lucky he is to be in love with John Watson, and know he is loved just as much in return.  

They’ve only been watching for ten minutes when his pocket buzzes, mobile lighting up through the fabric of his trousers. John hits pause without a second thought.

New text from Lestrade. Sherlock rolls his eyes and sits up, holding the phone so they can both see.

New docs from Hoberg’s computer.  
_Forensics just uploaded. Can you look?  
_ I’ll send the link.

Sherlock taps the attached file but his phone refuses to comply. He lets out a grunt of frustration. “Of course it won’t load on mobile. New Scotland Yard’s idea of cutting edge technology is practically stone carvings.”

“You can use my laptop,” John offers, chuckling. “I can’t remember the last time I started it, but it’s plugged in on the desk in the office. Password is _Hamish_ with a number one in place of the i.”

“Thanks.” Sherlock stands and leans down to give John a quick kiss. “I’ll just be a moment.”

“I’ll be waiting,” John murmurs, stretching up to steal one more.

The desk is tidy, but it’s obvious from the page-a-day calendar that John hasn’t been in here in awhile. Sherlock realizes with some amusement that the date displayed is the day they’d first met at the pub.

He opens the computer which has apparently just been asleep all this time, and grins when the first thing he sees is his very own Science of Deduction website. It feels like ages ago that Sherlock had been wrapped in a sheet in the kitchen while John nervously admitted to Googling him. Intending to open a new page, he closes the window, but doing so reveals John’s email app, open to the last message he had read. What Sherlock sees there makes his heart skip a beat.

 **_NHS Blood and Transplant - Donor Family Care Department  
_ ** **_New Message from Donor Recipient_ **  

His eyes skim over words he has read and reread a hundred times. Lines he can recite in his sleep.

 

— — — — — —

_Dear Donor Family,_

_Although there are no words to properly convey my gratitude, I would like to thank you for donating your loved one’s heart. I apologize for the late correspondence, but I have struggled to find the right words to express my appreciation for such a selfless gift, and sympathy for a loss as overwhelming as yours in the same letter. I have never been very good with the emotions of myself or others, so I hope these honest words will be enough._

_Prior to this transplant, I spent more than half of my 34 years bedridden, often in hospital. I was forced to rely on a family member as my caretaker, and lived an isolated and unfulfilling life, unable to even pursue simple hobbies like playing my violin. At the age of 32, my life was nearing its end, with the only hope being a heart transplant._

_I used to believe heroes didn’t exist, but your selflessness in the face of such grief is nothing short of heroic. Since the transplant, I am physically active, employed, and have a flat of my own. As sentimental as it is to say, I now know what it feels like to truly be alive instead of merely clinging to life._

_I extend my deepest sympathies for your loss, and again wish to thank you. Not a day goes by that I do not think of all you have sacrificed. In saving my life, your loved one conferred value on it. It is a currency I do not know how to spend, but I hope it will comfort you to know I spend every day eternally grateful._

_Sincerely,_

_S_

— — — — — —

 

Sherlock can’t breathe. Dazed, he looks around at the room, searching for something to ground himself. A way back to reality. Proof he’s in a dream.

James Sholto is everywhere in the office. Wartime ribbons and medals are laid out carefully in a box engraved with his name. His diploma hangs on the wall next to John’s. A picture of he and John in army fatigues squinting into the sun sits on the bookshelf, next to a professional portrait from their wedding and a candid from a tropical holiday. There are even old pieces of mail addressed to him laying in the letter tray.

It feels like they’re suddenly surrounding him in accusation: _thief! Thief!_

He needs to get away. In a panic, he quits the email app and slams the lid of the computer shut.

What are the chances? What cruel fate has put John’s husband’s heart in Sherlock’s own chest? That very heart is pounding now, beating against his ribs with such force it’s as if it’s trying to escape and find its real owner.

Sherlock is only alive because of all the pain John has endured, the sacrifice he’s made, everything he’s lost. Everything the _world_ lost when James Sholto died.

Guilt and heartbreak overwhelm him. His eyes burn as he blinks back hot tears.

“Sherlock?” John says from the doorway behind him, and Sherlock jolts up out of the chair. “Almost finished? Delivery boy was just here, I’ve got the table set.”

“No. I’ve got to go,” Sherlock says quickly, dipping his head to avoid eye contact and pushing past John into the hall.

“What? What’s wrong?”

Sherlock swallows, his throat impossibly tight. “Mycroft needs me — government business, incredibly urgent.”

“I’ll get my coat.”

“No!” Sherlock says forcefully. “He told me to come alone. No one else with me. Just by myself. He was very clear.”

John looks a bit hurt, and more than a bit confused. “But you haven’t eaten all day, can you just —”

“No time,” Sherlock says grabbing his Belstaff from the coat rack.

John puts a gentle but firm hand on his arm as he opens the door to leave. “Sherlock, wait,” he says, almost pleading. “You’re upset, I can tell. What’s going on?”

Sherlock fills his voice with cold resolve. “I’ve got to go,” he says, wrenching free and pulling the door shut between them, unable to look up and see the worry and hurt he knows he’ll find in John’s eyes. He makes it all the way home before he lets himself go, collapsing on the landing on the first floor as the pain of it all overwhelms him.

Strong arms help him to his feet and guide him to sit on the couch.

“I think it’s time you and I talked,” Mycroft says, unbuttoning his suit coat and pulling up a chair.

  
  
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly can't thank elldotsee, fellshish, and mandapanda8 enough, but I'll never stop trying. This wouldn't be possible without their cheers, edits, and honest feedback. I am the luckiest <3

“Why must the universe be so _cruel?”_ Sherlock cries into his hands.

Mycroft purses his lips as he takes in the soggy mess before him. He’s never seen his brother so undone, so … _vulnerable_. It’s unnerving and he has no idea how to stop it. “All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Sherlock looks up through tears, and Mycroft sighs. “Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.”

“You say that because you’ve never cared for anyone.”

“I care for _you.”_

Sherlock drops his eyes. He obviously can’t argue that point. “How did you know to find me here?” he asks instead, blowing out a shaky breath.

“John called me. He’s worried. Said he knew I couldn’t tell him about the case I needed you for,” he paused, raising an eyebrow, silently calling Sherlock out on involving him in a lie, “but said you were quite upset when you left his flat. Asked me to text him when you arrived safely.” Mycroft pats his pocket, pulls out his phone, and sends off a quick message. “There.”

Sherlock sniffs and bites his lip to stop it from trembling. Mycroft winces and picks up a box of tissues from the desk, handing it to Sherlock uncomfortably. Even with all Sherlock has been through, Mycroft can’t remember that last time his brother had shed even a single tear. It had to be going on three decades now.

“I should have known this would happen,” Mycroft mutters regretfully.

Sherlock shakes his head and blows his nose. “Don’t be ridiculous. How could you have known? What are the chances — ”

“That you fell in love with James Sholto’s husband after inheriting his heart? Slim, I’ll grant you. Nearly impossible.” He looks down at the floor. “But I saw all the pieces. The date and location of his death. The reason. The organ donation authorization papers with Doctor Watson’s signature.” He straightens his back and looks up at Sherlock. “I refused to admit they fit together. I didn’t want it to be true for the same reason you don’t.”

Sherlock doesn’t have the energy for outrage. “You read his file.”

“You refuse to communicate with me. I was keeping an eye on you,” Mycroft replies defensively.

“I don’t need you to keep an eye on me anymore, Mycroft. I told you, no more surveillance.”

Mycroft smiles tightly. “I have the flat monitored for your safety. You’ve chosen a dangerous line of work, making enemies of some of London’s most unsavoury citizens. Pardon the phrase, but … your loss would break my heart.” Sherlock’s eyes go wide in surprise. Mycroft ignores it. “That the team happened to pick up on the fact that you had a suitor was happenstance. Naturally, I thought it best to review the man’s history. Once it was clear there was nothing of alarm in his past, and his intentions were good, I didn’t get involved. I let you introduce us at your leisure, did I not? Though I’ll admit the idea of a clandestine interrogation did cross my mind. Regardless, I find Doctor Watson is brave and loyal. And … he makes you … _happy.”_ Mycroft’s voice goes quiet. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted for you.”

 _“Made,”_ Sherlock corrects miserably, tears filling his eyes again. Mycroft furrows his brow in confusion. “You said he _makes_ me happy,” Sherlock clarifies. “As if he’ll even be able to bear the sight of me after he finds out.”

Footsteps on the stair make both men look to the door as Lestrade appears, holding a stack of file folders. He stops short, eyes flicking between the brothers, taking in Mycroft’s grim expression and Sherlock’s red-rimmed eyes. His shoulders slump. “Oh, God, who died?”

“No one,” Mycroft answers immediately.

“John’s husband,” Sherlock sobs into his hands.

Lestrade’s expression turns from worry to rage in an instant. “He’s _married?!_ That bloody _bastard!”_ He slaps the files down on the table in anger.

“You’re misunderstanding,” Mycroft protests calmly, but Lestrade is too wound up to care.

“I can’t believe he would do that to you, Sherlock! You think you know a guy — How dare he — ”

Sherlock’s objections are muffled misery as he curls in on himself. “No, Greg, he didn’t —”

“Do you want me to go sort him out? Because I’ll _sort him out,_ if you catch my drift.”

 _“Oh for god's sake!”_ Mycroft bellows, standing. “Sherlock has John’s dead husband’s heart!” He exclaims, voice echoing in the stunned silence that follows.

Lestrade’s jaw drops and his face goes blank. He blinks a few times and his eyebrows furrow. The room is silent, except for Sherlock’s hitching breaths. “Oh,” he finally manages with a nod. “Oh. Wow.”

Sherlock buries his head in his hands. “Yes,” he murmurs miserably. _“Wow.”_

Lestrade rubs a hand over his face to compose himself, then looks at Sherlock sympathetically. “So you told him, then?”

Sherlock swallows, but can’t hold eye contact, his gaze flitting around the middle distance as if trying to make sense of an overwhelming memory. “No, he … he let me use his laptop to look up your godforsaken files, and … he had the email I’d written to my donor’s family open. It wasn’t hard to make the connection.”

“Jesus,” Lestrade breathes. “What did you do?”

“I panicked and left.”

“Oh, God, so he _still_ has no idea? You’ve got to tell him, Sherlock.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft agrees grimly. “It’s the best course of action.”

“And what would you like me to say, exactly?” Sherlock snaps.

“Well,” Lestrade says, gesturing with his hands as if the answer is obvious, “you just say, _‘John … ‘_ “ He stops, struggling to come up with the words. His mouth opens and closes and he huffs a quick breath and starts again. “Say, _‘John …’_ ”

 _“You_ can’t even say it,” Sherlock mutters.

“I’m still trying to wrap _my mind_ around it,” Lestrade says defensively. “But you know he loves you, Sherlock. He might not be so upset. You don’t know how he’s going to react for sure.”

“I’d like to be alone,” Sherlock says glumly, then sniffs and flops down on the couch, curling up with his back to Mycroft and Lestrade.

“I’m here if you need me,” Lestrade says, placing a hand on Sherlock’s arm a moment before he leaves.

Mycroft pauses in the doorway. “I’m sorry it’s come to this, Brother Mine. I’ll assist you in whatever way I can.” He waits for an answer, but when he’s met with silence, he turns to go.

He almost doesn’t hear the mumbled request. “Send me away.”

Mycroft frowns and turns back. “What?”

“Send me away. Find me a mission. I’ve helped you with things for MI6 before. Send me out in the field this time.”

“Sherlock … you’re being irrational —”

“It’ll be easier for John if I’m gone. _Please._ Find me a mission. Get me out of London.”

Mycroft purses his lips, then nods somberly. “As you wish,” he says, and pulls the door closed behind him.

 

* * *

 

Ribbons of warm sunlight unfurl across the sitting room floor as Sherlock wakes on the couch the next morning. He feels wrung out and empty, but a strange sense of calm has settled over him too. He can’t put off telling John any longer. What felt like a simple omission before has transformed into a treacherous lie. Sherlock doesn’t think he’d be able to hide the truth now, even if he wanted to, but he doesn’t. He wants to get as far away from John as possible, to allow the man to forget he exists. To forget what Sherlock has stolen from him.

After John gets off of work tonight, Sherlock will head to his flat and confess it all. He can’t put it off any longer.

He showers, tracing his fingers over the long, thin scar in the center of his chest. Feeling the steady, rhythmic thump. Although John tries to avoid talking about James too often, Sherlock knows enough about him to feel undeserving. James was a war hero, selfless and fearless. He had returned to London and focused everything he had on making life better for wounded warriors in crisis. He was charismatic and driven, highly regarded by friends and acquaintances.

Now James Sholto is dead, and Sherlock Holmes is alive. It feels unbearably wrong. Sherlock primarily solves crimes because he appreciates the challenge of it. Sure he helps rid the city of criminals, but they’ve usually already done grave damage by the time Sherlock is brought in. And Sherlock’s not so foolish as to think he is well-liked. In fact, the only people he wagers actually _enjoy_ his company are Mrs Hudson and John.

He spends the morning in his mind palace, replaying all the memories he’s made with John, making sure they’re all in stored away neatly. He likes to think he’s strong enough to forget John when he leaves London — it’s best for both of them — but just in case, he’s glad to have the few months they were together saved.

He doesn’t hear John until he knocks at the sitting room doorway. Sherlock’s stomach drops, but he can’t help but smile as he takes him in. He wants to memorize this moment too — John so unbearably handsome in jeans and a dark blue jumper that matches his eyes, expression open and innocent and happy. Has he gotten off of work early? No, he called off today.

“Hey,” he says, and the soft fondness in his voice makes Sherlock’s throat tight with emotion. He’s got a box in his hands, topped with a silver bow, and licks his lip before biting it, so whatever is in the box is making him feel bashful.

“Hi,” Sherlock replies, and stands, feeling as if he’s on the ledge of a high building about to jump. He’s scared, and he knows it’s going to hurt, but he needs to do this. For John.

Wordlessly they step closer to each other, closing the distance between. “I was worried about you last night.”

“Yes, Mycroft told me. I’m sorry I had to leave so abruptly.”

“As long as you’re alright,” John says, eyes narrowing the slightest bit in question. “I thought that seeing all of James’ things in the office might have upset you —”

“No,” Sherlock says quickly. “It wasn’t that at all.” He puts on a smile, and it seems to convince John well enough.

John nods doubtfully, but changes the subject. “I got you something,” he says, handing Sherlock the box.

 _You’ve already given me more than you know,_ Sherlock wants to sob, and afraid of the words that will come out if he opens his mouth, takes the heavy box from John wordlessly. He opens it with hands that are starting to shake, and his breath catches at the beautiful aquamarine glass and white marble within.

“A chess set,” Sherlock whispers, running his fingers over the hand-carved pieces.

“I thought, you know, since you’ve been teaching me, and you keep leaving your set at my flat, I would get you a new one. I know you’ll say I’m being too sentimental but … the color reminded me of your eyes.”

Sherlock nods, blinking back tears. “Oh,” is all he can manage.

“Hey,” John says, worried. “Are you alright? Sherlock?”

Sherlock looks up and gives him a watery smile. “I love it,” he says, then puts the set down on the table and wraps his arms around John, holding him tightly. “Thank you,” he whispers into John’s hair, trying to transfer every overwhelming ounce of gratitude he has for this incredible, kind, brave, and selfless man.

“You’re welcome,” John laughs unsteadily. “I’ve got a good feeling about it. I think I might even win a game on this one.”  

“You did come close once,” Sherlock manages to chuckle.

“Yes, but you were practically concussed from the O'Neill case, and you still beat me anyway. One of these days I’ll get you though, mark my words.”

But there won’t be anymore games now. Sherlock sniffs and pulls back. He takes a deep, shaky breath. “John, there’s … something I need to tell you.”

“Alright,” John says hesitantly, eyebrows furrowing.

“Something I’ve been trying to tell you and … I just haven’t been able to find the words.” Tension hangs heavy in the air between them. Sherlock inhales and forces the sentence out quickly. “Last year, I had a heart transplant.”

John’s eyebrows jump to his hairline and he huffs out a breath in relief. “Oh, my god. I thought you were breaking up with me,” he laughs and pulls Sherlock into a hug. “Are you alright? You’re okay now?” He pulls back quickly. “I’m not hurting you, am I?"

Sherlock shakes his head, biting his lip.

“That’s great,” John says with a smile. “You could have told me that, it wouldn’t have changed anything.”

“Yes, I know. I … I should have told you sooner, I’m sorry I didn’t. It’s just that … last night, when I was on your computer …” For a moment, Sherlock is sure he’s going to be ill. He forces himself to keep going, even as his voice starts to tremble and tears gather in his eyes. “I saw something … ” He doesn’t know how to get the words out, so he recites the ones burned into his memory. “I used to believe heroes didn’t exist, but your selflessness in the face of such grief is nothing short of heroic.”

John flinches in surprise. “You read my email?” he says slowly, not angry, just trying to understand.

“I _wrote_ that email. That … it was _me,_ John. _I’m_ S,” Sherlock whispers through his tears, hand over his furiously beating heart. He wishes he could rip it from his body and give it back.

John’s eyes go wide and his jaw drops. He blinks in shock as the words sink in, confusion and pain, shock and understanding flashing through his eyes.

“I’m so sorry!” Sherlock cries, tears flowing freely now. “I didn’t know! John, I swear to you, _I didn’t know._ I’m sorry, I’m so sorry!”

John nods, then shakes his head numbly, obviously still processing it all.

“I’m going away,” Sherlock says resolutely, breath hitching. “I’m leaving London so you won’t be reminded … I’m so sorry, John. I didn’t know.”

John looks so lost Sherlock wishes he was still allowed to hug him, to comfort him. His eyes meet Sherlock’s, hold his gaze for the longest moment as he tries to understand. He finally manages to close his mouth and clears his throat. “I … I need to go,”  John chokes, voice thick and gravelly. “I’m sorry, I … I … can’t …” he trails off as he backs toward the door.

Then John is gone, and Sherlock is left alone with his traitorous heart.

 

* * *

 

John barely feels the cold wind as it twists around him, snaking around his legs and in through the collar of his coat. His mind is an absolute mess of thoughts, chaotic and agonizing.

He is aimless and restless. He walks without a destination in mind, but somehow ends up back at the pub where Harry had dragged him on the blind date with Seb. Where he met Sherlock. At some point the bright afternoon has faded to a starless evening, and the pub glows warm and inviting. John stands in the shadows across the street, watching people mill about outside, talking, smoking. The muffled din from inside flares in volume as the door opens and closes. Music and laughter and clinking glasses. People enjoying their lives, unaware of the way his was imploding around him.

What were the chances?

He’s never felt so overwhelmed or conflicted. The memory of James’ death is suddenly so recent, so raw.

_The doctor had been somber and weary. John knew before he said a word._

_“We did everything we could, but the head injury your husband sustained was too severe. I am so sorry to tell you, although we did everything in our power, he no longer has any evidence of brain function.”_

_John’s legs buckled. Someone helped him into a chair. The world seemed hazy, slipping through his fingers, he felt like he was inside a dark room with a flicking light. Flick, flick. Words like, “living will,” and “end of life wishes.” Papers and a pen in his shaking hands. The feeling of being unable to breathe. Being brought in to say goodbye._

_The nurses had cleared out silently when John entered, giving him privacy. He had never been more alone in his life. His stomach was full of dread, heavy and nauseating. His mind screamed in despair. Automatically, he straightened his back and squared his shoulders, relying on soldier’s autopilot to get him through. Every step felt like it was in slow motion. A sob caught in his throat as he’d taken in the sight of James, chest rising and falling mechanically with the ventilator, the wound on his head hastily wrapped so John would be spared seeing the damage again._

_Their life together flashed before John’s eyes. Late night conversations over military rations in Kandahar. The look of surprise and relief on James’ face the first time he’d walked into the physical therapy room at the hospital and saw John. Their first kiss, the day James had been discharged and John had come to pick him up, shaky and sloppy, but so real, full of need and relief and adrenaline. Two military tours-worth of pent-up attraction leading to nights of carnal, worshipful passion. The first night in their flat, takeaway spread like a picnic on the floor. Picking out matching wedding bands, reciting their vows. A holiday in Ibiza. The day to day minutiae of a married couple._

_So many memories, but they’d never be enough. They were supposed to have a whole lifetime together._

_John stroked James’ face reverently, unaware of the tears streaming down his own. They had just been smiling and laughing … dancing. How had it all changed so fast? He couldn’t even kiss James goodbye, with the ventilator tube secured between his lips. Tenderly, he placed his lips to the gauze over James’ forehead, then weeping, feeling the floodgates break inside of him, laid his head on his chest and listened to his heart beating for the last time._

A burst of raucous laughter from the pub startles John out of his reverie.

He has no desire to be around people, but God, he could really use a drink right now. He leans back against the building and rubs his hands over his face. The temptation is overwhelming, the way it had been in the beginning. He just wants to make these feelings stop. Drown it all in a warm amber haze. Alleviate the soul-crushing pain of his grief.

But then he remembers that first night with Sherlock. Whiskey disappearing as a cold glass of water was slid toward him. A liquid lifeline. The way Sherlock’s eyes had lit up when they talked.

That John had been sure, somehow, he already _knew_ him. Was it possible he somehow sensed what he couldn’t have known — that he _had_ already known a piece of Sherlock, in a way?

The short months Sherlock has been in John’s life are the happiest he’s been since the gala … before his life was left in shambles. Sherlock makes him feel alive again, makes him happy. He never imagined he’d find someone he could love again, or that he could ever allow himself to _be_ loved. But it’s so natural with Sherlock, so _right._ The idea of living without him too …

John takes a deep breath and turns resolutely away from the pub. He pulls out his phone as he walks toward the tube.

“Hey, it’s me. Sorry, I know it’s late. I was wondering if you might have some time … I need to talk to someone. No, in person. Yeah. I know where that is, sure. Thanks, Harry.”

 

* * *

 

“Are you sure you’ve got everything, dear?” Mrs Hudson says, looking worriedly at the single, small duffel bag Sherlock has sitting on the kerb.

“All the essentials. I can buy whatever else I need, or Mycroft can ship it to me later.”

She nods, barely placated, then looks up to meet his eyes. “No word from John?”

“No,” Sherlock says simply, and to his relief she doesn’t press the subject, although she is obviously crestfallen at the news. Not that he’s given John much time. It’s barely been 36 hours since he first found the email, and only a handful since he told John. He appreciated his brother’s expediency in arranging his travel.  

Mrs Hudson squeezes his arm. “Are you sure you really want to do this? It worries me, the thought of you alone in another country, hunting down criminals … it’s so _dangerous,_ Sherlock. And we’ve got plenty of awful things happening right here at home that could keep you busy.”

“It’s better if I go,” he says, giving her a hug. “I promise I’ll be careful.” A black taxi pulls up in front of the building. “That’ll be my cab.”

She reaches to pick up his bag for him before he can. “Good heavens, this is heavy!” Realization dawns on her. “You’ve packed the chess set. Oh, Sherlock … are you sure you wouldn’t rather leave it here for safe-keeping? It’ll be waiting when you come back.”

“No,” he says with a sad smile. “I’d very much like to have it with me. It’ll keep my mind sharp, anyway. I can try to outsmart myself. It’ll be a good distraction.”

“I suppose you’re probably the only one who can,” she says as she kisses him on the cheek. She watches the taillights until they disappear onto the main street.

 

* * *

 

“Wow,” Harry says simply, jaw dropping.

“Yeah,” John says quietly. He stares at his hands, fiddling with a sugar packet. They’re tucked into a booth at a diner between his and Harry’s. The only other patron, an off-duty copper, is situated on a barstool at the other end, quietly scrolling on his tablet while he eats his hash.

“I mean … _wow,”_ she reiterates.

“I know.”

They sit in silence for a few moments, stewing in the insane turn of events.

“So … you just walked out?”

“I just … I needed time … I needed to _think._ I panicked.” He buries his face in his hands and groans. “I just left him standing there, crying.”

Harry sighs sympathetically. “Give yourself a break, John. It’s a lot to take in. I’d wager most people would have done the same thing you did.” John splays his fingers to look at her. “How are you feeling now?”

He drops his hands to the table. “I don’t know _how_ I’m feeling. I’m sad and confused and shocked … I’m angry at the universe …”

“But are you angry at Sherlock?”

“God, no,” John says immediately. “No. I think … I’m mad at myself.”

“Why?”

“Because …” he purses his lips and fights to swallow back the emotion that suddenly threatens to overwhelm him. “Because I _love_ Sherlock. Because I’m so _grateful_ Sherlock is _alive,_ but … I feel like that must also mean I’m happy James _isn’t._ And I couldn’t — _wouldn’t_ — have one without the other. But I’m not — I could never be —” He pulls in a quick breath and turns away from her, hastily wiping at his face.

She lays her hand over his. “No one would ever think you are. I believe this is the definition of the phrase _‘every cloud has its silver lining.’_ And you know … maybe the universe was being kind instead of cruel. Perhaps this heart is meant to be with _you,_ always.”  

 

* * *

 

The room is bright and airy, overlooking a courtyard where children are playing. Laundry is strung on lines between the buildings, drying in the sun. The smell of fresh baked bread and ocean mist waft in through the open window.

Sherlock hates it. He wants to crawl into a dark, dank hole somewhere awful like Serbia and cease to exist. Some MI-6 mission this was turning out to be, working out of a sunny villa in Italy. Locating the black pearl of the Borgias? What a joke. Mycroft has essentially sent him on a Mediterranean holiday.

He debates whether or not to unpack his meager items, tempted to call his brother and demand a less idyllic lodging, but it’s been a long journey and he’s tired.

He already misses John with sorrow so profound he is sure he can feel it in his bones. Knowing John is in pain now because of Sherlock is unbearable, and he hopes that John forgets him quickly and is able to move on. He knows he has to do the same — delete the last few months, reassemble the barriers he had built up, and go back to the life of solitude he’d been familiar with most of his life — but he just isn’t ready to let go quite yet.

 

* * *

 

The Diogenes club is stuffy and silent as ever. John is ushered back to Mycroft immediately, which gives him hope he’s not too late, if they’d been expecting him.

“He’s not here,” the elder Holmes says from behind his opulent wooden desk.

“He already left?”

Mycroft stands. “This afternoon.” He gestures to John to sit and walks to the cabinet, pausing before reaching for the cognac. He picks up the pitcher of water instead, and pours them each a glass.

John nods his thanks when Mycroft hands it to him, but is too lost in thought to take a sip. “I’ve been thinking … the dedication is coming up, and it means so much to me. And … to James.” John takes a deep breath, and looks Mycroft in the eye. “I miss James. I’ll _always_ miss him. But I _ache_ for Sherlock. I don’t think I’ll survive losing him too.” He clears his throat uncomfortably and looks away to compose himself.

A few moments of silence pass between them before Mycroft finally speaks. “The situation you find yourself in now is undoubtedly overwhelming. I know it will take time to process. But while you do … I think it’s important you know … all the years we waited for Sherlock to get a heart, I was sure, as sentimental as it was, that any heart he received would have to be from someone absolutely _remarkable_ if it were going to be at home in Sherlock.”

John nods in agreement and swallows hard, swiping at his eyes.

“Do you believe in fate, Doctor Watson?”

“I didn’t used to, but … now I don’t know,” he answers honestly.

Mycroft smiles wistfully. “I suppose we’ll never know for sure, but it somehow today … it seems much more probable.”

 

* * *

 

It’s impossible not to be distracted by the way the fading sun catches on the aquamarine chess pieces. Sherlock moves a white rook across the board, then stands and moves to the other chair. He’s been sitting at the small cafe for hours now, and can’t even focus enough to finish a single game.

Sherlock puts a hand over his cup and smiles a polite “no grazie” when the waitress comes around to refill his espresso again. She touches his shoulder lightly and gives him a sympathetic smile. “Il tuo cuore guarirà,” she murmurs, but Sherlock disagrees. His heart will never heal, he’s certain.

He’s already solved the Borgias case, quite simple really. But the six statues of Napoleon Bonaparte have been gathering dust on the same mantles and coffee tables for years. The recovery effort could stand to wait a few days more, until he got his bearings. Once his purpose for being here is over, he’ll have to figure out what to do next, and obviously Mycroft can’t be trusted to make appropriate use of Sherlock’s skills. Maybe he can do some international freelance.

Suddenly, a hand slides the white queen across the board. “Checkmate,” a familiar voice says softly, fondly.

Sherlock’s breath catches in his throat and his heart practically leaps in his chest. He looks up in surprise and takes in the most beautiful sight he has ever seen.

Sherlock stumbles to standing, nearly knocking over his chair. _“John,”_ he breathes, a thousand overwhelming emotions conveyed in a single syllable. “You … came for me?” he manages, throat tight with emotion.

John smiles, full of affection and awe, and something like apology. “Of _course_ . Of _course_ I did.” John reaches for him and Sherlock wraps his arms around John so tightly, he can feel their hearts beating against each other, reunited at last. He buries his face in John’s neck and breathes him in, wanting to laugh and cry and dance over this brilliant, beautiful man.

John pulls away, and cradles Sherlock’s head in his hands, wiping away an errant tear with his thumb and looking deep into Sherlock’s eyes. “I can’t bear to be without you. Please, Sherlock, come back to me. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Sherlock says, and then they are kissing, passionate and tender, full of need and relief and adrenaline. They pull apart, leaning together, foreheads touching as they catch their breaths. Out of the corner of Sherlock’s eye, he sees the waitress smiling at them knowingly. He drops his eyes shyly, suddenly very aware they are in public.

“My room is just upstairs,” he murmurs to John, who nods and stands back, clearing his throat gruffly and flexing his hands into fists. They pack up the chess set and Sherlock nods to the waitress with a small smile as he leaves a generous tip for her beneath his cup. She grins and makes a shooing motion with her hands.

When they are finally upstairs, John moves slowly, unbuttoning Sherlock’s shirt like he’s unwrapping a beautiful gift. He traces trembling fingers down the long, thin scar worshipfully, before laying his palm flat and closing his eyes. Emotion hangs heavy in the air, both men breathing in gasps, swallowing down anything more.

John kisses Sherlock, one hand cupping his cheek, the other still guarding Sherlock’s heart. His lips move from Sherlock’s lips to his cheek, his jaw, and down his neck to his collarbone. He lays Sherlock down on the bed, and presses slow tender kisses along the entire length of the seam on his sternum, then curls in beside him, and lays his head on Sherlock’s chest, listening. Sherlock feels the moisture of soft tears on his skin, but John breathes evenly, in tandem with Sherlock. Warm and solid in each other’s arms, Sherlock is overwhelmed by a comforting reassurance that they are right where they need to be, healing together. Taking care of each other.

He watches the curtains blow in the breeze, amazed that the room he hated so viscerally now feels like home thanks to the man beside him. Thinks of how different his life would be if not for James Sholto. Wonders if he’d even still have one.

“He died so I could live,” Sherlock whispers into John’s hair, words nearly silent in the hushed room. “I don’t know how to accept that.”

John takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, but keeps his ear pressed to Sherlock’s ribs. “Sherlock … James’s injuries were so severe … there was nothing they could do to save him. But at least his death was more than just tragedy. At least something good came of it.” He laughs ruefully. “And isn’t that just like James, to save others even with his own death. It wasn’t all loss, Sherlock. If I couldn’t keep him with me, at least in a way, he gave me you.”

“A consolation prize,” Sherlock counters remorsefully.

John sits up then, looking Sherlock in the eye intently. “A _gift,_ Sherlock. You are the best, brightest, most beautiful gift he could have ever given me.” He kisses Sherlock, soft and sweet, to punctuate the statement.

John slides back down, laying his head on Sherlock’s shoulder now. He sighs. “If I’m honest … in the beginning, I was angry. I knew it was the right thing to do … what he _wanted_ me to do, donating his organs. But it took awhile to see the beauty of it instead of just being angry that people had benefited from the biggest loss of my life. But to know that pieces of him are still out there, still _alive_ … means he is too. And if I’m honest … I think he saved _me_ by saving _you,_ Sherlock.”

They lay together, battered ships in a safe harbor, while the sky outside darkens and is dusted in stars.

 

* * *

 

The dedication for the James Sholto Veteran’s Mental Health Center takes place on a crisp, bright morning in late November. The building is stunning; classic brick architecture on the outside, with a beautiful, modern interior.

He takes to the stage with no small hint of nerves, but looking down into the audience and seeing so many people he loves smiling back puts him at ease. Harry and Clara sit next to Mrs Hudson, the three of whom have become fast friends. A team from Scotland Yard, including Lestrade, take up a row behind the invited veterans, and even Mycroft Holmes is there, standing stoically at the back. But it is Sherlock’s bright, encouraging smile front and center that keeps John grounded and helps him begin as he is introduced to the group.

He starts by thanking the appropriate groups for their funding, time, and energy, feeling the lump in his throat grow as he reaches the personal part of the speech.

“Many of you know, this dedication holds great personal meaning for me. My late husband James and I served in Afghanistan, and we both struggled with post-traumatic stress disorder upon our return to London. James spent his days working with veterans, looking for a way to fill the void and provide more mental health resources to our country’s bravest heroes. It was his uncompromising drive, bravery, and passion that brings us all here today. So it is with great honor that I dedicate this center in loving memory of General James Sholto.”

The reception is held in the large, open atrium of the building. The floors above look down on this center area, which features a large skylight, plants, and a small koi pond. There are hors d'oeuvres and a band, and a bar serving mocktails and sodas. John finds himself pulled away from Sherlock for most of the evening — a literal line of people waiting to talk to him. Grateful soldiers and their loved ones tell John what a difference James had made in their lives. 

John catches Sherlock’s eyes across the room now and then, knowing looks of love and shared jokes that only they can decipher. Sherlock is surrounded by his own court of characters, entertained by Mrs Hudson, Harry, Clara, and Lestrade. Mycroft left after the ribbon cutting, a solid handshake, congratulations, and well-wishes.

As the evening starts of wind down, they finally steal a quiet moment together. “I love you,” John whispers into Sherlock’s ear under the moonlight in the courtyard. Muffled music hums from inside. Sherlock pulls away and grabs two champagne glasses of sparkling grape juice, handing one to John. “To James,” he says softly.

John smiles. “And to us,” he adds, then chuckles, “to a heart’s desire.” And they toast, glasses clinking like audible glitter.

Inside, the band picks up a new tune. “May I have this dance?” Sherlock murmurs, extending his hand to John. The night is cold, and John shivers a bit as he settles into Sherlock's warmth. Wrapped up in each other, they sway and spin to a new love song, laughing and stealing kisses. John tucks his head under Sherlock’s chin, fitting so perfectly in the space that he can’t help but think about what Harry said. He is definitely grateful for silver linings, and so, so in love with the beautiful man before him.

John wants to stay in the moment forever, but they only make it to the first chorus. Sherlock’s mobile buzzes insistently, and John chuckles and snakes his hand into the tight trouser pocket to fish it out for him.

“Ignore it,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s neck.

“I don’t know, Sherlock,” John teases after he’s read the messages. “Lestrade says he just got a good one … might even be _locked room._ Things have wound down here, I’d say we’re free to go if duty calls.”

“Are you sure?”

John laughs and takes his hand, and they steal off into the night together, hearts beating wildly.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! I am so happy that this little AU has touched so many people and have had an absolute blast writing it. Comments and kudos are more appreciated than you can possibly know, and have fueled me in this whirlwind endeavor <3


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